Consequences
by Valantha
Summary: Every action has consequences. Sometimes these consequences are predictable, sometimes they're completely unexpected. Rachel still wasn't sure in which category to place this... this pregnancy.


- Author's Note: Prompt fill for buttercups3: **Rachel gets accidentally pregnant from Miles in the present day.**

Posted yesterday afternoon on AO3. Set loosely in early 2.07.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

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Rachel continued her nighttime routine, popping off her dishwater-colored bra with its slightly ratty elastic and slipping on her nightgown. The routine served as anodyne to the dream-like nature of her childhood bedroom and the nightmarish reality that Monroe still breathed less than a mile from the town walls.

Her breasts complained, as they did the few days before her period; she needed to get some more menstrual rags. As she curled up in bed, she thought back on the past week – so much had happened with the Patriots and the Rangers joining forces to catch and execute Monroe, and then she saved his sorry life for Charlie – but her breasts had been sore throughout, and she hadn't started her period. She hadn't menstruated for a while now. She wracked her brain. She hadn't menstruated for more than two months, since before Charlie returned with Monroe, since before she had killed Ken, since right before the Andovers and the Patriots came. Oh God…

Could she be pregnant? Shit. But, when? _That night._ That night – after she killed one of her best high school friends and Miles watched the two men spontaneously combust in front of him – they had had sex. A passionate, hurried melding of bodies to soothe the soul, the likes of which she hadn't experienced in more than two decades, since after Miles got back from his second tour in Afghanistan. Miles _had_ pulled out prior to ejaculation – likely almost accustomed to this crude method of post-Blackout birth control – but Rachel knew pre-cum frequently contained viable sperm.

Rachel slipped her hand underneath her cotton nightgown and gingerly felt her flat abdomen. _Was there a baby in there? _Rachel had missed periods before – several times during harsh post-Blackout winters, for almost a year with Monroe, and during her walk to The Tower – but since living in Willoughby, she'd eaten well and hadn't had to fear for her life… as much. Could she be entering menopause? It wouldn't be _un_likely. She needed to talk to Dad, to ask when Mom and his mother entered menopause.

_But a baby_… Rachel smiled. A new light – a new life – a fresh chance to create something good and wonderful in this world. Another child to hold, and to love, and to protect – to hold on to and never leave, _no matter what_. A chance to right her wrongs, prove that she _could_ be a good mother. A chance to prove she could do _something _right. But she was too old. She had turned 44 in October; she had a 20-year-old daughter. A daughter that was old enough to have a child… No. Rachel ruthlessly stopped that thought in its tracks. She was not going to think about her estranged daughter's sex life.

But she was still too old. She had entered the "advanced maternal age" bracket quite some time ago, and she knew her eggs were far more likely to fail at meiosis II leading to offspring with Down syndrome or spontaneously abort. There were a host of other issues associated with her age, but then again, she had had Danny when she was young and damn near at the peak of her fertility. _Danny._ Oh, Danny.

White-hot panic inundated her being. Rachel flew out of the house, nightgown flapping in the night air, barely registering the pain of sharp – and cold – rocks biting at her feet. What if her fetus – her daughter – had the same issue Danny had had? The doctor said his birth defect didn't have a strong genetic correlation, but r didn't equal 0.

Rachel found herself in front of Miles' apartment door and pounded frantically at the old photography studio door – she had gotten her senior photos taken by Mr. Schulte. Miles opened the door, bared blade in his good hand, clad in nothing but dingy boxers.

Rachel threw herself into his arms, burying her face into his lean and hairy chest.

"Rache?" he asked gently, one hand holding the sword away from her, the other awkwardly resting on her back. She knew she must be quite a sight after running through town in her nightgown and stocking feet.

She buried her face into a disjointed whorl of hair on his right pectoral and ran her fingers along the familiar Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo on his bicep. She inhaled the musky smell of Miles. She mentally subtracted the new odors of bitter Texas river water and faint piñon pine smoke, and added the crisp smell of the deodorant he had used two decades ago. The sweet tang of whiskey-sweat and the strong oniony odor of man-musk were immutable.

After a few moments, Miles pivoted away to sheath his sword, returning to her embrace before she could do more than moan in animal complaint. He stroked her hair with his good hand, and before long, Rachel calmed down enough to feel a rush of shame at her insane overreaction. Even if her fetus did have some birth defect, there was nothing anyone – especially Miles – could do about it, and she didn't even know if she was pregnant.

After several minutes, she stopped tracing the arc of the anchor, and looked up into Miles' chocolate brown eyes – eyes so emotive they almost made up for his verbal emotional constipation – they were filled with worry, concern, and yes, love.

"Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?" Miles asked using the gentle voice he saved only for her.

Rachel stepped back and broke eye contact, "I was afraid our baby had Danny's birth defect."

"Huh, what now?" Miles grunt-asked.

"You know, born missing a bronchial artery, with unformed lungs, hardly able to breathe," Rachel added.

"Yeah, could you go back a bit to the part about our baby?" Miles clarified.

Rachel looked back up to see puzzlement, and maybe hope, swirling about in Miles' eyes. Rachel took strength from those eyes, "I haven't menstruated since before the night I killed Ken; since that night I spent here, with you. It's still early, and it could be menopause but…"

"But we were careful!" Miles interrupted.

Rachel snorted, "Coitus interruptus hardly counts as 'being careful.'"

Miles knelt down and almost worshipfully placed his large callused hands over her womb. He gazed up at her with such adoration that a wave of warmth suffused over her. Despite all of the issues in their past, despite all of risks of this pregnany to herself and the fetus, despite the danger of the Patriots, Dr. Horn, and Monroe, Rachel felt that she – no, _they_ – could handle it all.

Miles would never be the sort of father Ben had been – pouring through all of the parenting books, assiduously dividing child-care and housework equally (the only way it would work with two PhDs focused on their careers) – but he would be a fine father, dependent on gut and heart, not book-learning. The way he looked after Charlie, he already had practice and skill.

Aww shit. Charlie. What were they gonna tell Charlie about her new ¾-sibling? Well, she could save that conversation until she had stronger proof. She needed to talk to Dad, find out if there was any good way to test if she was pregnant. Dad wasn't going to be too happy though, he only barely tolerated Miles for her sake.

Oh, Miles… she _knew_ he'd want to do the 'right' thing and marry her – for what little social respectability and 'stability' that would supply their child – but she didn't know if she could stand marrying another Matheson for the sake of a fetus. She didn't want to get married out of some paternal societal expectation, she wanted to get married because they loved each other, because they were trying to forge a new relationship – untainted by their past betrayals - because they actually were willing to do what it took to make it work.

Rachel tore herself out of her thoughts, and back to Miles' rambling and – for him – emotive words to catch a question, "… think it's a boy or a girl?"

Rachel sat down on Miles' chest, a small smile teasing at her lips, "Well, right now it's a girl. The SRY transcription factor doesn't get made until the 7th or 8th week, so no male hormones or characteristics yet."

Miles shook his head slightly, "You know everything."

Rachel smiled wryly, "I had a _lot_ of free time on my hands…"

Miles grimaced, catching her drift, and sat down beside Rachel, "What should we name her?"

Rachel smiled, "Well, we need to see if I really am pregnant before we get our hopes up. I really shouldn't have come to you so early; I should have waited for hard evidence. And even if I am pregnant now, I still could miscarry."

Miles grabbed her hand and squeezed it, his daily allotment of words almost used up. They sat in silent contemplation; some of Rachel's earlier optimism slowly returning.

"Gene is gonna kill me," Miles said morosely.

"I'm more worried about Charlie's reaction," Rachel replied.

"Family is hard," Miles added laconically.

"You can say that again."

"Family is hard," Miles said smiling.

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- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)


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